


once more

by days4daisy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Clothed Sex, Extra Treat, F/M, First Time, Post-Canon, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25500103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: The Queen of Winterfell has a grand bedchamber. It will take a good twenty paces for Tyrion’s unlucky legs to reach the foot of the bed. Assuming he's meant to stretch the distance.
Relationships: Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 114
Collections: Battleship 2020, Battleship 2020 - Red Team





	once more

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrisonersDilemma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrisonersDilemma/gifts).



The Queen of Winterfell has a grand bedchamber. It will take a good twenty paces for Tyrion’s unlucky legs to reach the foot of the bed. Assuming he's meant to stretch the distance. He turns a curious look up at Sansa. With the rustic wooden door shut behind them, they stand alone in Sansa’s quarters. A hearth warms the muted grays and browns. Her bedspread is the color of wine, downy and soft in appearance. Quite a pop of color for the North.

“I’m...sorry,” Tyrion proceeds with caution. “Is it normal to conduct business affairs at one's bedside?” As a guest and representative of the Six Kingdoms, he knows the manners he should keep. But events of the past few years have made decorum difficult. And he has always found his tongue loosened by Sansa. They spent next to no time married, unconsummated - as he always reminds anyone whether they ask or not. And yet, all these years later, there is little he would not tell her. And less still that he is afraid to ask.

“You wished to see where you would be staying,” Sansa explains. She speaks quietly but with an authority that suits her. In recent years, her posture has straightened with even greater poise. Which is saying something, given the grace she possessed even at a young age. The metal forged crown of the North sits upon red hair that has grown to her elbows.

Sansa was made to rule. Her lordship over Winterfell is one of very few events in recent memory that makes sense. Tyrion’s presence in the queen’s sleeping room, by comparison? No sense at all.

“Yes, but this is your room,” Tyrion points out.

“It is,” Sansa agrees. She offers a hint of a smile, a peek at the smart humor Tyrion knows lurks beneath her placid expression. “I recognize it.”

Sansa knows, of course. But what Sansa knows in this instance is of no consequence, because that knowledge is not shared. Tyrion knows things as well. Such as, it is improper for the Hand of the King to escort the Queen of the North to her bedchamber. It is especially improper when said Queen of the North is the King’s elder sister. It is extraordinarily improper when the Hand of the King was once married to said Queen of the North.

Tyrion smiles too, because a game is afoot, and though he may not understand the rules yet he does love games. He takes a step back. (Distance is proper given the situation.) The wooden door to Sansa’s room is rough through Tyrion’s clothes. The piece was not sanded down, its fibers uneven. The imperfection is soothing, much like Winterfell itself. The North always lacked the polish of the South before the great fiery purge of King’s Landing. Tyrion was too foolish to appreciate its honesty in his youth. Now, serving a king he has no reason to doubt, Tyrion still appreciates this breath of fresh, cold air.

Not too cold though. The hearth glows, but it is spring in the North. Tyrion’s entourage passed fields of blossoming buds on their journey.

“And where shall I make my bed within this wealth of space in the queen’s chambers?” Tyrion wonders aloud. “A blanket before the fire would be lovely. I can assure you, I’ve slept under far worse circumstances.”

Sansa glances down at him. Her neck remains impossibly long, her narrowed eyes reminiscent of Bran’s ravens. “You’ll make your bed with me, of course,” she says.

Sansa was beautiful even before she reached an age where it was appropriate for a man her senior to think so. She was a child when forced to marry, but even then Tyrion saw the beauty she was and would become. Pain, grief, and power have only made her more enchanting. She is lithe and strong, and it forms a crick in Tyrion’s neck to take in every bit of her. He nods his head back to meet her gaze with full respect.

“The Queen of Winterfell should not draw the short straw to share a bed with the king’s dwarf,” Tyrion says. “Unless Winter closed it permanently, there is a brothel not far beyond your gates. If guest quarters are sparse, I’m happy to make my bed there.”

“Destroyed, but it's been rebuilt,” Sansa tells him, “and thrives now, from what I hear. It would be a first, though. To spurn a queen's bed in favor of a nightwalker’s den.”

Tyrion raises a brow. “And how often is a queen’s bed offered?” He frowns as soon as he hears himself. “A jest only, my lady. One that needs no answer.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t,” Sansa says. Another smile, and a sparkle in her eyes. “But it isn’t. A queen’s bed has been offered only once.”

Tyrion’s frown evens to surprise. Very few people in Westeros beguile him quite like the young Lady Stark. A jest on Sansa’s part, it must be. But the joke hides itself in the shine of her eyes, and he can think only that her hair has grown so long. So very long, and wondrous for a lucky man’s fingers to adore.

“I serve your brother, Sansa.” It’s all Tyrion, a man of knowledge impossible to quantify, can think to say.

“And I’m glad for it,” Sansa replies. “My brother sees much; past, present, and future. But you can give context to his visions and a path for his plans.” She pauses, mouth a cherry line. “I’ve missed you. But you’re not kept here. There is no guard at my door.”

Tyrion makes a skeptical sound. “I trust you more than I trust myself,” he says. It’s with some surprise that he finds the words to be true.

Sansa’s pursed lips become a true smile. When her face lights up, she becomes her age. Youth glows from her raised cheekbones and seems to glisten on flawless skin. She is beauty beyond explanation. To share her bed and nothing else is all Tyrion needs to be happy.

“I may need a boost,” Tyrion informs her, eying the height of her bedding with a raised brow. It’s worth a moment of self-deprecation to hear her wonderful laugh.

***

A touch of chill still cools dusk in the North, but Sansa’s bed is warm. Tyrion lies upon the most fabulous fur blanket, nestled in like a babe in swathing. From his back, he can appreciate the construction of the Queen’s chambers. Long, sturdy wooden ceiling mounts lovingly chopped and nailed and refined by hand. Tyrion has always appreciated the honesty of the North. There is very little that does not speak to the hard work of generations before.

Even now, Tyrion appreciates the lengths it took to reach this moment. The many houses and powers that claimed this room before it was reclaimed in the Stark name. There is still much to rebuild. Piles of rubble line the outer walls.

But this room, chamber of the Queen, stands as strong as it ever did. Tyrion is as glad for it as he is to hear Sansa’s soft breaths beside him.

A glance confirms that Sansa is every bit as awake as he is, her gaze also on the ceiling. A smile touches her lips, something small and quiet like a secret. Tyrion delights in knowing things, but he does not ask. There has been much said without words; Tyrion on the Queen’s furs, stripped to his underclothes. The lady Sansa, as well, has shed her dress and corset for a simple underdress. Beige with soft pink ribbons along the bodice. It is a soft look for Sansa, far younger than her daytime dress. Tyrion finds that he is happy to see it, though it also takes him back to those shameful times. When he had to break a child’s heart with a loveless, unconsented marriage.

“Margaery used to say I was too hard on you,” she says.

Tyrion lifts his head to listen. It has been many years since he’s heard or thought of Margaery Tyrell. One of his sister’s many victims in the Wildfire massacre, he found out later.

“She asked if you were kind to me, and I said yes. I’ve thought about it since those days. I’ve thought that it should have been you. Though I was a child, in my eyes as well as in yours. I wish it had been that way.”

Tyrion lets her speak, takes in the truth of those words. Sansa sounds like a woman in the twilight of her life, too ravaged by time to anger as she should. Tyrion takes her hand because he feels where she cannot. Sansa’s skin is white as Winter, and her long, slender fingers wind through his.

“I wish many things,” Tyrion says when he’s sure she means to say nothing else. “For myself, sure, but mostly for you. It was unfair to treat a child as you were. To ruin that which should be sacred and born of love and mutual agreement.”

Sansa exhales through a mirthless smile. “That’s a rather romantic way of looking at things.” She turns her head towards him, and her eyes dance in the light of the hearth. “I used to delight in romance.”

Tyrion nods. “And I took that from you, something for which I can never be more sorry.”

She shakes her head, and her fountain of hair shifts against her pillow. “It was never you, Tyrion.” Her thumb scales the back of his wrist. “I was a child, but I did know that much. I was naive, not stupid.”

“No,” Tyrion agrees. “You’ve always been wise beyond your years. Wiser than you should have had to be.”

“As were you,” Sansa says. “I suppose we have that in common.”

It’s quite a simple way of putting things, but at the center of it all Tyrion finds this to be true. He squeezes Sansa’s hand in acknowledgment. Yet another grain of wisdom from a woman who has carried more of the world’s weight than one three times her elder.

Sansa holds his gaze. Poignant stares run in this family, Tyrion thinks. Long, soulful looks that bore deep down to the soul.

“Do you still think of me as a child?” she asks.

Tyrion worries his lip and rummages for the right thing to say. So often, his expert tongue fails him with Lady Stark. She truly is her mother’s daughter.

“Even in those days, I’m not sure I ever did,” he admits. “They forced you to be so much more than you should have had to. You were so bright, so funny, so full of passion and pain. A child by age, but you were more than that. And you are now.”

Tyrion’s brow furrows when she guides their held hands higher. He shifts forward, closing the distance between himself and the lady of the house. It is a surprise to find his palm pressed to Sansa’s bosom. The gentle rise of her skin before her breasts hide beneath her nightdress’ hem.

“Sansa-”

“It should have been you, and I’d still like it to be, if you’re willing.”

Tyrion cannot help his laugh, quiet disbelief muted by pressed lips. “Willing,” he echoes, shaking his head. “Willingness was never, and will never be, a problem, my lady. It’s-”

“That you see me as a child,” Sansa finishes for him. Her gaze grows sharp and daring, and again in her Tyrion sees Catelyn Stark. All fierce persistence, but softer, longer. Red pillow-mussed waves frame her face. Only the strongest man would be able to resist sweeping them back. Tyrion is not a strong man, let alone the strongest, and he eases fingers through her hair. Soft, silky red strands pouring between his fingers like a spill of wine.

“I see you as beautiful,” Tyrion admits. “Far too beautiful to share your bed with the king’s dwarf, let alone offer something so precious.”

Sansa counters him with a kiss. Tyrion does not see it coming; his foresight and knowledge are slipping yet again. Or perhaps none can know Sansa on wisdom alone. She is unpredictable as wildfire. Her lips are soft and warm, and though she lacks experience she is firm with confidence. Her body presses close, heated through the thin layer of her bed clothes. Tyrion savors what he can experience of her outline - the swell of her breasts, the firm press of her stomach. Her face is like porcelain, and he coils a red lock around her ear, enjoying how the touch makes her sigh.

She blinks as she backs from him, and in her gaze Tyrion finds a battle in progress. Sansa’s determination has not waned, but he finds hesitation too. A question left unanswered until Tyrion tips her chin with a gentle touch.

“Follow me,” he says, and he kisses her again. This time, he leads; gently, so not to wrest control of this evening away. He asks permission with the angle of his pursuit, waiting until the part of Sansa’s lips beneath his. Her mouth is as sweet as the sappiest of love ballads. As he kisses her, he thinks of fresh berries in summertime, his fingers dancing down the long line of his neck.

A shiver lingers on Sansa’s lips when they part a second time. Pink lines her cheeks and creeps in a slow flush down her throat. Her breasts shake against him when she breathes. She is stunning, and Tyrion cannot help but feel awe about everything. This moment, this situation, this woman, this life.

Tyrion holds her eyes, he wants to make sure she sees everything. With her full attention, he draws fingers down her collar to the space between her breasts. Tyrion leaves her night dress as it is. Through it, he explores her - his meager hand is not up to the task of holding her. A single breast floods his palm, pressing out into the space between his fingers. Her nipple is a pert bud under the cotton. Tyrion drags his thumb across it, and Sansa gasps beneath him. He kisses her shoulder in comfort, his beard scratching pink lines into her skin.

Her stomach lies flat beneath his touch, but her hips bear a womanly curve. Sansa grips the edges of her nightdress with trembling fingers. With a deep breath, she lifts the fabric, body stiff and anxious.

Tyrion pauses Sansa with a hand set over her hers. “Leave it,” he suggests with a smile. “It may help this time.”

Sansa stops at his heed, but she looks at him in surprise. “What about you?” she asks.

Tyrion shakes his head, charmed by the question. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been,” he says. He thought it would be a kind lie, but in hindsight he tries to think of another time when he was happier than this night. His memories fail him with substitutions.

Sansa still appears uncertain, but as bid she lowers her dress. Instead, blanketed by the cotton, she opens her legs in a wide butterfly. Another deep breath, and a look at Tyrion. Wide-eyed, nervous but certain, she nods. He’s not sure he has ever seen a more stunning sight.

He sets his hand low on her belly. She shivers under him, a scrape of a tooth across a corner of her lip. But she does not close, her legs blossomed open, blanketed by the long train of her night dress. “Watch if you’d like,” Tyrion says. “Close your eyes if you’d like. Or kiss me if you’d like.”

Sansa smiles at this last suggestion. “I wonder which you would favor of the three, my lord.”

“I’m a simple man, my lady,” Tyrion replies with a bowed head. It earns him a pretty laugh, he isn’t sure he could ever tire of the sound. Sansa sighs into the sound, and her body sinks deeper into the furs. She dips her head back, eyes on the ceiling. With a deep breath, lips curled in a soft pink ‘oh,’ she nods.

With permission granted, Tyrion still takes his time. It is for Sansa’s benefit, of course. He wants her to feel every movement of his hand downward, let her know his intention and experience it all the same. His hand drifts to her thigh first and feels the muscle flutter underneath.

But the slowed pace is for him as well. Tyrion wants to commit this moment to his memory. To immerse himself in a blessing he never could have foreseen. Only the most devoted of what was once the Seven Kingdoms would shy from the place he occupies right now. He feels unworthy, the weight of every wrongdoing hunching his shoulders. Her dress dips deepest between her thighs, a triangle of cotton valleyed down.

It is best for Tyrion too that his eyes go unsated tonight. There is only so much beauty a man can survive at one time.

Tyrion watches Sansa’s face. He offers his thumb only, a gentle tap of pressure in the center of her spread legs. Sansa’s breath catches. He catches anxiousness on her face, surprise, and a touch of wonder. It’s the final piece he yearns for, but he allows her time to experience the gentle weight. Tyrion lets her accept it. Lets it be on her own terms.

Sansa’s eyes close, and her hands lay flat at her sides. Her chest rises and falls heavily, and she nods.

With care, Tyrion rubs his finger along the gentle line of her folds muted by her outer layers. Even with fabric between them, she feels heated and soft, and she gives under his touch. Color rises to Sansa’s cheeks. Her exhale shakes from her lips, and the tension begins to ease from her legs. Her knees open wider and less strict, legs uncrossing so she can plant to the bedding. Her fingers sift through the fur blanket, strands of dark brown between her fingers.

Tyrion increases his rhythm. He finds success as her breaths quicken and her body rocks towards his touch. At her encouragement, he adds his index finger. Through her clothing, he can feel the shape of her, the faintest swell of the place he seeks. Tyrion pinches teasing fingers and rubs slow circles. Sansa’s breath rushes out and a strained look overcomes her face.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Yes,” she gasps back, “yes.” The words rush out.

Tyrion’s chest squeezes. His mind carries enough bounty to pleasure himself for the rest of his days.

With added fingers, he can offer more. He strokes the lips of her sex, fabric of her nightclothes gently pressed between them. He applies more pressure at her sensitive place and revels in the surprised sound that puffs out. The fabric between them grows damp. She’s hot around his fingers, and he feels her quiver. Her thighs tighten, and it’s with surprise that Tyrion finds his shirt grasped. Sansa’s fingers grip as tightly as any Tyrion has known, and he startles back a touch, afraid he’s hurt her in some way.

Sansa kisses him with a fierceness of a woman twice her age. One who knows what she wants and has no qualms about seizing it. It is startling to be chosen for such a gesture, and touching. Tyrion lets her guide him, her mouth scraping his beard as she finds the angle she likes. Her fervor encourages Tyrion. He gives her more pressure, quickening his pace. The sound of shifting fabric and skin floods the room. The fire crackles behind them. Sansa’s breaths tickle his lips.

She withdraws with a gasp, her eyes squeezed closed. Sansa’s face reads utter ecstasy, and her body presses into Tyrion’s hand. Her nightdress wets with orgasm, and Tyrion strokes her through it. His mind floods with imaginings of the bounty that lies beneath the fabric.

Sansa sinks back to the bed, rosy-faced and dazed. She looks to Tyrion, and Tyrion takes her hand so he can press a kiss to her knuckles. “Beautiful,” he tells her.

She smiles, tired but pleased, and it warms his belly like a jug of the best wine. “I liked that,” Sansa admits. “Except this part.” She picks at her soiled night clothes.

Tyrion laughs kindly. “Yes, I suppose that’s the one drawback. Is there another one I can fetch you?”

“I could remove it.” Sansa rubs her lips together. Tyrion can’t read her expression, something wondering, but so much more.

Tyrion gives Sansa’s hand a squeeze before resuming his place on the other side of the bed. “My hands will behave,” Tyrion promises, “though I’m not sure my eyes will be as obedient.”

Without fanfare, Sansa sits up on her knees and peels her sleep dress from her body. She is as long and smooth as Tyrion always imagined. Her slender torso slopes into curved hips. Her breasts, pert and pink-dipped. Her sex draped in a layer of fine red curls.

“I would prefer that your eyes do as they like, my lord,” Sansa says. With a twitch of her lips, she returns to her back.

It’s with a breath of resolve that Tyrion removes his own clothing. Sansa turns to watch him, and Tyrion lies on his side, a wry smile given to her attention. “It’s only fair,” he says.

“It is,” Sansa agrees quietly.

Her eyes continue to roam, which amuses Tyrion. It’s not as if there’s much ground for her gaze to cover, after all. “Does this make you uncomfortable?” he asks.

“No,” Sansa says. "I’m glad to see you.”

Tyrion’s heart warms to a degree he cannot remember it reaching in a long while. “Good,” he says. True to his word, he closes his eyes, his patient hands tucked against his chest. One still feels a touch wet from Sansa's nightclothes.

“Good,” he hears Sansa say to his side.

Tyrion keeps his eyes closed, but he smiles. Perhaps life has evolved to a place where ‘good’ is once again not only possible, but attainable.


End file.
